


You Own the Place (where all my thoughts go hiding)

by dls



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Porn with Feelings, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-20 23:15:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22551289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dls/pseuds/dls
Summary: "Take what you need, Witcher, and I'll do the same." Jaskier offers, waving a careless hand like he's suggesting stopping for lunch instead of falling into bed together."Hm." Geralt nods once, slow. If all he can - all he is allowed to - give is physical pleasure, then he will accept it. Settle for it. He dares not to ask for more after how he treated Jaskier, his bard, his friend, his beloved.Or: The mutual pining fic where Geralt and Jaskier learn to say what they mean...eventually.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 88
Kudos: 1549
Collections: Geralt is Sorry, Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	You Own the Place (where all my thoughts go hiding)

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-ed by [Arboreal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arboreal/pseuds/Arboreal).
> 
> References/Quotes   
>  Title from "Underneath Your Clothes" by Shakira.

Jaskier loves Geralt as much as he hates himself.

It didn't used to be this way, back when he loved Geralt from afar the way astronomers gazed at the stars and saw invisible lines painting pictures of romance.

If only he hadn't believed in his own delusion of their unspoken friendship between grunts and insults, hadn't let false optimism add a bounce to his steps and make it as if he was walking on air, hadn't tried to reach for the cold light in the sky.

Then he wouldn't know the shattering pain of falling, weightless except for the heaviness in his chest.

And yet. He hasn't learned - doubts he ever will - still looking up even as his heart sinks down, down, _down_.

Self-loathing bubbles under his skin at how pathetic he’s become, groveling for scraps of affection and begging for the barest of touches.

“Take what you need.” Geralt growls, canines grazing across Jaskier's collarbone.

Jaskier wishes he would bite down instead and give him something slightly more lasting. Something that he can feel - bruises that throb or scrapes that sting - when passion cools and leaves him shivering. Something to match this ache in his heart, sometimes sharp and sometimes dull but ever-present.

Like his hopeless love for the Witcher.

_Take what you need._

Words that started them down this path, finding comfort in and release from each other when long nights away from civilization grow lonely without the touch of another.

Part of Jaskier resents this new arrangement while another part of him craves it. Opposites tearing at him, the temptation to let their combined seed dry on his skin and the urge to scrub himself clean to remove the evidence.

Something to remember this by and something to help him forget.

As if he could.

They share one bedroll; they hardly use the second one and plan to sell it at the next town. Some nights, Jaskier lies awake, listening to Geralt's soft snores, and marvels at the bitter paradox of him being so near yet so far away.

Of holding and not having.

 _Take what you need_. 

A lovely sentiment but ultimately an invalid one because what Jaskier needs, he cannot have.

It is exhausting to walk this fine line Geralt has drawn between them. Each time Jaskier toes it, Geralt pushes him back with harsh words that grow harsher and harsher with every attempt, culminating in a snarled demand to the Destiny Geralt so despises to take Jaskier off of his hands. 

Sure, Geralt's apology at the foot of the mountain was appreciated and accepted, but Jaskier knows where he stands now.

Why Geralt allows a silly bard by his side.

Jaskier is the one who stayed when others leave. Which isn't much a statement of how important he is to Geralt but how stupidly blind everyone else is.

Though, Jaskier supposes, Yennefer has a valid point in the tainted start of her and Geralt's relationship; Djinns are known to twist the wishers' words so instead of a dream coming true, it is a living nightmare. Despite his curt admittance that Yennefer is right and he will, therefore, not pursue her further, Jaskier can tell Geralt wants to, wants to find her and breathe her in - fucking lilac and gooseberry - until she fills him completely.

All he has said about how Jaskier smells is that he reeks of onions and smirks when Jaskier blames his predicament on their proximity these days.

 _Take what you need_.

Fatigue washes over him, sudden but not unexpected.

He's tired - has been for years - chasing after a man who will wait for him to catch up only to outpace him once more. Forever out of reach in a game of tag with no end in sight and no chance at victory.

Geralt doesn't want to be caught and Jaskier doesn't know how much longer he can stay on his feet.

Or his knees, in this case, rising and falling in Geralt's lap, impaling himself on Geralt's cock.

_Take what you need._

An invitation he would have been ecstatic to receive years ago but now fills him with bitter melancholy. Because the only thing worse than a fool is a greedy one.

He doesn't want Geralt's permission to _take what he needs_.

He wants Geralt to _give him what he wants_. 

There’s a difference between letting someone touch and initiating the contact, one that Jaskier wishes he didn't know but knows all too well. By his own doing too, enticing the Witcher with hooded glances, bitten lips, and filthy words while Geralt remains stubbornly passive and silent, even though he never refuses Jaskier's advances and follows Jaskier's lead readily.

A drop of sweat falls into his eye and he blinks to clear it. Then blinks again when his vision remains blurry. His cheeks feel wet. With a start, he realizes he’s crying. Mortified and confused, he hides his face in the curve of Geralt’s shoulder and tries to pass off his groan of humiliation as sexual frustration. They _have_ been at this for hours, Geralt opening him up with thick fingers and hot tongue while Jaskier licks up the proud line of Geralt’s impressive length and laps at the tip. 

Except, much to his horror, his erection starts to flag. No longer hard and dripping where it is rubbing against Geralt’s belly. 

_Fuck._

This never happened before and he has no idea why it is happening now. Now, of all times, when they are camped in the middle of the woods after nearly a week of continuous and strenuous travel. A relentless pace that has him worn thin.

His muscles protest as he rides Geralt with frantic abandonment, twisting on his way up and tightening on his way down. The angle has him seeing stars behind his squeezed-shut eyelids so he focuses on the taste of salt, a mixture of his own tears and Geralt's sweat on his lips, and thinks of the coast they never went to.

Please, please, _please_ don’t let him lose this one thing he has with Geralt.

The Witcher doesn’t like his singing, his chatter, or his company. The only thing Jaskier has to offer is his body and even that is failing him as he feels his cock grow limp and flop pitifully as he moves like a whore. Feels like one too, actually, working desperately for someone else’s release with no desire for his own. Not even the satisfaction of giving Geralt pleasure - one of Jaskier's favorite things in and out of the sheets - can reignite the spark of gratification, the heat of primal need.

He can't quite control the whimper tearing out of his throat, nor the choking sob when Geralt's hands grip his hips and still his movements.

"Jaskier."

It isn't a question so Jaskier doesn't answer. Can't answer, with the way his body curls into itself, into Geralt, as he weeps noisily, gasping for air and drowning in his misery. This may be the last time he is allowed in Geralt's presence, the Witcher already sees him as weak and this will only confirm it further. This realization brings forth a new wave of tears.

Geralt huffs.

Which is exactly what Jaskier expects. They will pull apart, gather their clothing, and sleep as far away as possible while remaining within the radius of warmth from the fire. In the morning, Geralt will leave and Jaskier will not follow.

This is the end he has always feared and despite the trite sayings, confronting it doesn't bring him any relief, only more pain. His chest clenches in agony - in agreement - at the thought.

Geralt's palms fall away from Jaskier's sides. He withdraws himself from Jaskier's body with a lift of his legs and a shift of his hips.

The next move, undoubtedly, will be a hard shove sending Jaskier tumbling back.

Jaskier steels himself against it, breath hitching and holding in anticipation.

Only for Geralt to surprise him by looping his arms around Jaskier's back, one palm resting at the base of his spine and the other cupping the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry." Geralt says, his lips brushing against Jaskier's ear and turning each word into a halting kiss. "That I cannot be what you need."

"You are." Jaskier corrects without thinking. It is instinct, by now, to defend Geralt from any slight.

Geralt inhales sharply. "I am?"

Jaskier's heart hurts - a different kind of pain - at the disbelief in Geralt's voice. This is likely his only chance to confess his truth and he might as well make the most of it.

If he could give Geralt one blessing before being sent away, again and permanently, then let it be the knowledge that someone - however inconsequential and useless and ridiculous - loves him.

Loves everything Geralt is and anything he will be.

Even if Jaskier could have none of it.

"You are." With some effort, he pushes himself to his elbows and meets Geralt's eyes. "You are what I need, what I want." He swallows the _what I cannot have_.

"Then..." Geralt traces a finger down Jaskier's cheek, damp and flushed. "Why?"

Jaskier remembers Geralt's earlier words and tries valiantly to ignore the feel of Geralt's cock - half-hard and still wet - nudging against his backside. "I cannot be what you need."

"You are."

"I am?" Jaskier blinks. Then he winces at both the inanity of repeating their previous exchange and the stupid, stupid hope flaring in his chest.

The corners of Geralt's mouth lift slightly. "You are. You're what I need, what I want." He cups Jaskier's jaw with a tenderness that belies the callouses on his hand. "What I cannot have."

"I was literally just thinking that." Jaskier blurts out and flushes at his thoughtless confession. He blames the weariness blurring his mind and leadening his limbs.

"What, why?" Geralt frowns.

Jaskier desperately wants to see that almost-smile again. "Because..." He gestures vaguely at himself then at Geralt, his thoughts tangled in his head and knotted around his heart.

Geralt is still frowning.

"Take what you need, you, you always say that. And it's-" He feels the tears welling up again. "It's not the same as giving me what I want."

"I don't understand."

It's unfair for Geralt to sound so wounded and confused when it is Jaskier who is hurting. "I love you, alright? And you don't love me." He snaps.

"You love me?" There's something like wonder in Geralt's tone, then he pauses and frowns some more. "And I do not love you?"

Sniffling, Jaskier closes his eyes and nods.

Geralt sighs, deliberate and careful, like the whisper of his sword leaving its sheath before a battle. "You are wrong."

Jaskier's eyes snap open.

"You are wrong." Geralt says again, golden eyes bright like the sun reflecting off of his blade when he is prepared to go to war, to fight for what is important and protect what is precious. "You are wrong. You are wrong. You are wrong." He repeats with such _fondness_ and _exasperation_ and _desire_ as he draws Jaskier close until the very air filling Jaskier's lungs are those three words, until Jaskier hears something different - something true - underneath them. "You are wrong."

 _I love you_.

Jaskier inhales sharply, jagged, and exhales with a near-hysterical laugh. Incredulous and delighted. He's never been so happy to be wrong.

Their mouths meet in a rush of heat, tongues slipping and teeth nipping. Ravenous for more and confident that their appetite will be met. Geralt's hands are back; large, calloused palms cupping the swell of Jaskier's ass.

Jaskier's knees squeeze around Geralt's torso as he rocks against Geralt's hardened length, adjusting with each roll of his hips until the tip catches on his slick hole.

Geralt's fingers trail in between Jaskier's cheeks and teases at the rim before steadying himself at the base.

With a groan, Jaskier sinks all the way down in one smooth glide, the sensation of his body yielding to and accommodating Geralt as delicious as ever.

Geralt makes a broken-off noise then suddenly, Jaskier is on his back with his legs spread wide and hooked over Geralt's arms. The new position knocks the breath out of him and he doesn't get a chance to catch it when Geralt drives in long and hard.

"You are wrong." He rasps in between licking into Jaskier's mouth. His hands find Jaskier's, fingers intertwined and holding on tight.

 _I love you_.

Jaskier pants and arches and writhes. "You are wrong too."

 _I love you too_.

Then there are no more words, only whines and moans as they move together, barreling toward the edge. They lose a bit of time, lost in each other.

Eventually, Geralt's thrusts grow shorter and faster, tempo stuttering every time Jaskier spasms around him. He hisses when Jaskier unlaces their fingers to reach for himself and purrs when Jaskier lets his hand drop.

"Good."

The rumbled praise sends sparks down Jaskier's spine, sparks that ignite into a wildfire when Geralt wraps a hand around Jaskier's weeping cock, stroking him in time with every drag of Geralt's perfect cock inside of him.

Jaskier comes with _his_ Witcher's name on his lips, spilling messily over Geralt's fingers and his own belly.

Geralt fucks him through it, pressing the heel of his hand - sticky and wet - possessively against the spot beneath Jaskier's navel, where he is buried deep. He comes with a growl, grinds in and stays there.

_Giving Jaskier what he wants._

**Author's Note:**

> [dls-ao3.tumblr.com](https://dls-ao3.tumblr.com/)


End file.
